Smith and Johnson a new beginning
by Uncle Steve
Summary: A fic written for the Sweet Charity auction, following on from previous stories set in White Wolf's Sorcerer genre.


The man in the chair sobbed quietly, no longer straining at his handcuffs or trying to keep the blood out of his eyes. Prescott finished fitting the silencer to a small pistol and walked back to the where his prisoner was slumped under the yellowing light-bulb.

"Shut up with the moaning. I don't care that you don't know anything, I'm going to kill you anyway."

Between the bursts of blinding pain, Arnold Hughes wished that he had a wife and kids. That sort of thing would probably go handily on the end of "Please, I've got a …" right now, but it just never occurs to you at the time, does it?

The side of his face started to numb and wondered if he'd feel the bullet before he died.

Prescott raised the pistol to Arnold's forehead, but then paused. His other hand pulled a radio from an inside pocket.

"Hank, there's still no sign of him?" There was a burst of static.

"Nothing, sir. The perimeter's clear all the way out."

"But I'm about to kill this man. I mean, I'm really going to kill him, right now. Johnson must _know_, he's got precog, why the hell isn't he here?"

"I have no idea, Sir."

The gunman sighed, and looked at Hughes. "You didn't piss off a man called Johnson while you were there, did you?"

The bound man opened his eyes hesitantly but kept his gaze on the floor.  
"Johnson? He's… what, the office guy? He just handles computers, he's not even field-rated. I didn't talk to him at all-"

"They're got him behind a _desk_!" Prescott threw back his head and laughed loudly, which Arnold couldn't help noticing involved moving the pistol away. "The single most effective wet-work agent in the history of the Organisation and they've got him on paperwork!"

"Well, his file says he's very good with computers…"

"Of course he is! He can get into bloody anywhere, he's got passwords and friends all over the place."

Prescott got his breath again and looked sadly down at his victim. "Johnson should have come to get you. You've got access to some rare skills, and he can never resist bringing in new recruits. Do you even know what your talent is, by the way?"

Hughes was stammering, the sweat dripping into his eyes. "I… I just work in HR. They brought me in to handle conflict management. Office politics were getting a bit out of han-"

"Bollocks, they don't hire anyone who isn't a freak too. They just didn't tell you. Well, too late now." He raised the pistol again, and the handcuffed man screamed – and disappeared.

"Ah, crap. One of the teleporters." Prescott clicked the pistol's safety and set the weapon down on a workbench. "Hank, he's just ported out of here. Start searching the grounds. And keep an eye out for Johnson, maybe he's just running late."

-

The woman drifted slowly into view, stepping lithely over the wet rocks of the stream. Dark vines trembled at the touch of her nakedness. Her soft hair was moonlight and darkness around the bright, ageless eyes that commanded his soul. Serpents coiled around her gleaming body and a wolf howled far in the distance. Shuddering, he –

"David. Wake up."

"Ugh."

"Dammit Johnson, are you doing that cheap Goddess porn again?"

"No, no… I…"

"I've told you about that Dreaming thing, I won't have you using psychic powers instead of paying up for cable channels like everyone else."

It was – cruelly – morning, and bright sunlight exploded horribly into the room as Jennifer pulled open the curtains. He winced and rubbed his eyes.

The girl put a mug of tea down on the bedside table. "The office called. You've got to meet some guy they're bringing in from Human Resources. I think they're trying to calm things down in Technical again."

He was always reminded of the age gap between them in the mornings, even though she was less than ten years younger. Jen was already dressed and practically bouncing with energy, while he slowly rolled over in bed and sincerely hoped the clock was fast by about two hours.

Johnson reached the office just as a thin, nervous man with a bad suit was being ushered in to see the Boss.

-

The morning before his afternoon of torture and near-death, Arnold had arrived at the offices ready to apply the latest management principles to a new 'complex work environment tension situation'.

"So, you're aware of the unique nature of our little Organisation here?"

"Yes, I've been fully briefed. It would help if you'd give me some details from your side of things, though…"

"Ah, fine, fine. Walk with me, I'll show you around the old place."

Henry Streatham was a plump middle-aged man, with an English accent that had come fresh off the cricket field in 1920. He was the nominal Managing Director of the Organisation's London headquarters, and an extremely skilled sorcerer. Hughes had expected to meet someone who radiated power and authority, but this stout little man was friendly and modest: "My name is on the letterhead, sure, but really we're all one big team." Right.

Henry gestured at a few of the figures behind desks in the main office. "Everyone employed here has a minor magical talent. We don't work the same way as the fellows at the Academy, this is quieter stuff – usually either from innate psychic abilities or book learning. We have mind-readers, shapechangers, demon-summoners… some of them worship nature, some read medieval grimoires and command nature. Some do both. And that's our main problem."

They reached a set of stairs under a sign that said "Dormitories 50-99". The small metal plate looked scorched along its edge. "The only criteria required to join is that they have the power. We don't judge them on their path, and… well, if you ask me we don't regulate what they _do_ with that power enough either."

A muffled explosion could be heard from the top of the stairwell, but the Director didn't slow his pace.

"The geniuses who've spent twenty years studying Enochian are offended by our younger members. Half of our psychics are teenagers who could be politely described as 'troubled'. This is before we get the usual clashes between those who claim their power comes from God, and the others who practice Raven Medicine, or follow Grandfather Thunder. Or the Witches, whose natural reaction to the Church is of course _very_ calm..."

They reached the top of the stairs and started down a narrow corridor of what looked to be bedrooms. Through many of the open doors, various music could be heard – some even from live instruments. The difference even between neighbouring rooms was astounding; in the first Arnold saw a very young girl who seemed to be blind, then in the next a man in robes who was talking to someone out of view, and the last room they passed was so full of green plants and flowering vines that he couldn't make out the occupant at all.

"Anyway, tensions have always been present… but recently certain factions have escalated things. We need you to settle them down in a normal manner, as you would with any office politics."  
"And I'm to understand that these particular office politics may come with a bit more bite than usual?"

Henry nodded. "Possibly. Also, most personnel will know the arguments you're going to use ahead of time and have their answers ready, so watch for that."

The HR man didn't appear concerned. "That's been a problem at many of the places where I've had to work with this type of client. I'm sure it won't present a problem."

-

"_I want you to look on me as a facilitator…"_

It hadn't gone well. There were clearly divisions in the department that were bordering on a holy war, and Hughes was slightly at a loss as to how to solve them. The entire building had an air of tension and restrained violence.

He met Streatham again in the company bar for lunch. The place was warmly lit and comfortable, and the sandwiches were generous. Various groups of sorcerers were scattered around the enormous room, huddled around their own tables and defined by the contrast in clothing. Robes were common, and partial nudity. Practical leather (bordering on armour), and even a few figures in shockingly normal jeans and shirts.

"I'm afraid this may take longer than I'd initially-"

They were interrupted by loud voices at the next table. Three men in black robes were shouting at two women. All five had stood up and were starting to close in with their opponents. Arnold looked quickly to the older man, but Streatham didn't seem worried.

Glancing back, Hughes was surprised by an enormous figure – a blond and muscled giant, in a white tabard. The large man walked calmly between the two lines of shouting sorcerers and faced the loudest of the black-clad group.

"Okay, that's enough."

"Get out of the way, eunuch." The much shorter figure didn't look at all scared of the newcomer's powerful presence.

"You know the rules, no fighting in the bar."

"These bitches are saying-"

"I'm not interested. The Order are neutral, and that means I just stop the fights. Now if you can't calm down, please leave."

'Short and angry' sneered at the man, and let his friends see it. "And who'd make me leave - you? No, you can't. You're not _allowed_ to. You've been castrated by that Goddess…"

The blond didn't react, just remained standing in place with his arms crossed. "Everyone knows the rules", he repeated.

Muttering, the black robes all turned and left the room. Hughes gaped at Streatham. "What the hell was that?"

Henry looked slightly amused. "That was Peter. He belongs to the Order of Reth, who act as our bouncers." He waved vaguely. "They have attained a level of favour with their deity, and a condition of staying there is that they're not allowed to commit violence. So they remain neutral in any dispute and no-one's allowed to harm them for any reason - if you do, you get thrown out of the Organisation." He took a drink from his plastic cup. "Somehow everyone accepted those rules… possibly because the Order really _are_ both neutral and pacifist, so they're the only guys we have who can break up the increasingly common fights. Brawls are allowed elsewhere on the premises, but not here."

Arnold groaned and rubbed his eyes. "This wasn't mentioned in the briefing."

Henry nodded. "There's probably quite a lot that wasn't. Don't worry, we'll walk you through it."

The lumbering bouncer with the gentle, intelligent face had resumed watching the room from his seat at the bar.

-

Ten minutes later, Arnold was jogging through the rain to his Volvo. '_I'll finish up evaluations with this Parkes guy after lunch, then Falconer and Johnson, and get the paperwork to head office. It'll probably be gone six before I get out of here..._'

This turned out to be somewhat inaccurate, as seconds later he had been loaded into a van at gunpoint and was leaving the Organisation's headquarters at some speed.

-

"-aaaaaaah! Oof."

Arnold was lying on a hard, dirty floor and it was cold. Oh. That's because he was naked. The terrified man didn't understand what had just happened – he'd been abducted, abused, the gun had been pointed… he'd thought he was going to die and had tried to get away, but couldn't move his legs, so he… what did he do? How did he get here? And although it was nice his hands and feet were no longer tied, just where was he now?

It slowly occurred to the sweating, adrenalin-filled escapee that there could be as little as one single wall between him and his executioner, and that he didn't have any clothes. Arnold scrambled to his feet and started running.

-

"And this is the man? You're sure?"

Back in the Organisation's headquarters later that day, Hughes was having his injuries treated and looking at mugshots. The man who'd tortured him was the second photo the Doctor had shown him, of a Mr. 'Dean Prescott'.

"Yeah, it was him." Arnold winced as the compress was applied to his cheek. "Something pulled me out of the room just in time, I assumed it was one of your men."

"The teleportation? No, no, Mr Hughes. That was you."

"…What?"

"Yes, I know it's a shock, but you're one of us. Wouldn't have been hired if you weren't. Looks like your ability was brought on through extreme stress, but the precogs say you'll be quite powerful at it one day."

"…What?"

The Doctor sighed.

-

Johnson was worried. He had a briefing to go to at 9am, and he _never_ got invited to briefings. Something was up. That was normal, of course, something was always up at the Organisation, but for the last few years that wouldn't have involved Johnson at all. Since his time away (and once he'd recovered from some bullet wounds) he'd been strictly desk-bound. He didn't want to examine the small excitement that was growing rebelliously inside him at the thought of going back into action. He had the feeling Jen wouldn't like it.

When he walked in, Streatham was already there and standing in front of a whiteboard. The new HR guy was sitting in the front row, nodding. Tech help and HR in a 9am emergency briefing? What the hell was going on?

"Johnson, good. Sit down, we've got a lot to cover." The lights dimmed and the first photo appeared. "This is Dean Prescott. He's an ex-MI6 agent who's decided he doesn't like the fact that we exist. Thinks any magicians must be monsters, although he's not affiliated with our good friends in the Technocracy in any way. He wasn't a problem until a few months ago when we noticed he was arming street gangs around London."

Streatham turned to the HR man (who's name was Hughes, Johnson remembered) and explained: "We police the local area against any magical presence that could be damaging to our interests – threats to the mundane population, out of control individuals who might bring attention to us, that sort of thing. If it impacts our business directly, we also move against normal criminals in the area."

Pointing to a section of the whiteboard, Henry continued. "Prescott has a disturbing amount of access to information on us. We suspect a mole."

This was met by an immediate chorus of groans from the handful of people in the room. Between the Necromancers, power-mad hermetics, die-hard Qabalists and various distracted hippies, candidates for 'screwing over your colleagues while gaining something for yourself' were never rare.

"He found out that it was Mr. Johnson who led the mission to deny him several crates of automatic weapons."

Johnson's eyebrow arched. "That's very specific info."

"Yes it is. And it means the mole is in operations. More problematical at the moment is that he's singled you out for revenge, with the destruction of the Organisation as a secondary aim. Apparently the arms deal would have moved him a long way up in the world."

In the dimmed light, Johnson shrugged. Wasn't the first time he had some vengeful maniac after him. Okay, he'd been younger and fitter then, but still…

"I'm afraid there's more bad news. We don't know of anyone else who's after us at the moment, so we're assuming this is related to Prescott... Mike Taylor went missing this morning."

Most of the room looked confused but not worried, as though they weren't entirely sure who that was. Johnson remembered a big, dark man from a few years ago. A soldier, ridiculously capable in combat... they'd worked together a while back. He didn't like to think how tough anyone would have to be to abduct Mike, or beat him in a fight.

Henry continued. "Some of his belongings were also taken. We're treating it as suspicious for now."

The next hour was the usual details – increased security, new routines for getting onto and offsite, a lot more about Prescott but little useful data. One thing that the sweaty guy Hughes had said, when describing his contact with the enemy, surprised Johnson. He filed it away to ask Jen about later.

-

That night, the two of them were in the high-backed armchairs in facing the fireplace, where he often held court. The venue had changed a few times, but the chairs travelled with Johnson. These days they were upstairs in a discreet pub near the centre of London, and tonight the warm fire was helping the alcohol to go down. To one side, a chess board of some sort had wooden figures on it, although they seemed to be the wrong shape and in odd positions.

"He said that Prescott thought I'd know about the abduction through precog, and I'd launch a rescue attempt. And he's right, that should definitely have shown up, but it didn't. Did it?"

A man approached the chairs nervously. "Excuse me. Er… I was told to see you? I have a problem, and… there's this-"

Jen's chair swivelled around slowly, and she nodded, her eyes closed. "I know."

-

When Johnson broke into Smith's bathroom a few years ago, he convinced her not to do the little thing she'd been about to, and offered her a life of excitement instead. She decided to see what he was talking about, and eventually (after the usual near-death incidents and large explosions, were-creatures and foul, foul murder) found that she wanted to live. A little later, after some help from a friend who couldn't resist pushing them a bit, the two of them started a romance that survived many things (not least both of them nearly dying from blood loss in the same week).

Given the all-clear from the hospital and some excruciating physiotherapy, Johnson went back to work at the office and things settled into a domestic routine. Jen had discovered what the other sorcerer already knew: that she sometimes had visions of the future. Training with the others in the Organisation she had learnt more control over the skill, but the warnings were always of small incidents. She knew Johnson had more than one power himself, but they'd never managed to talk about it. She understood that, at least. She didn't want to discuss her own power, even with him… it was too personal somehow.

Jennifer definitely didn't miss the excitement. She knew this was true, because she told it to herself nearly every day. What had been so great about constantly dodging bullets (or not entirely dodging them, which still made her thigh hurt on cold days), psychotic female ninjas with kitchen knives who were your _friends_, vampires, more vampires, hairy men who sold guns it would take three normal people to lift...? Nothing, of course. It was stupid and scary and now she had a normal life with the man she loved. So it all turned out well.

Right.

And now Henry (who had been so nice when David was unconscious in hospital for those endless few days) wanted her in on the latest mission, because some lunatic was after her man and she was in going to be in danger until it was sorted. Well, at least she'd see more of her fiancé during the day while they were both in Operations.

-

Henry Streatham's body was found the next morning. He was in his rooms, with a note on the side-table.

"_Dear all,_

_I seem to have picked up a curse this evening, loudly proclaiming itself to be from our friend on whom we've been spending so much time recently. It doesn't look impossible to break, and I have some expertise in these matters, but it could be quite nasty. Arrangements have been made for the running of the business in case I fail. Be careful – if he's willing to use magic, it could make things tricky. Hopefully see you tomorrow._

_Henry."_

When the maid came in at 10am, she found him seated cross-legged on the floor and not moving. His eyes were closed, as though he was in calm meditation. He'd been dead for half a day.

-

"So Prescott knows we're onto him, and is already acting." The mood in the whole building was sombre, and Jen was impressed with how deeply everyone seemed to be affected by their leader's death. There was no question of a day off; if anything everyone seemed to want to work harder than ever, but there was a heavy weight on everyone's spirits when they shuffled into the briefing room.

"The only good news we have is that we _are_ onto him. Karen worked on the arms case and got a link from some physical evidence at the time. She's managed to re-open that link."

Jennifer realised that the man at the front of the room was nodding to a small blind girl. She looked impossibly delicate, but the voice that replied was assured and precise. "Yes. He's not shielded, and I can get some quite clear visuals on him with a few minutes notice."

She didn't recognise the unremarkable man at the front of the room, who was standing-in as acting head of section. He continued addressing the gathered sorcerers: "Karen will be on the team from now on, operating from this building. So far, we have intel that Prescott is based some miles to the South. We'll narrow that down when we can. He's not gearing up for an assault yet, unless it's already prepared. We don't have him meeting anyone else, so it's still a mystery as to how he'd use a… a spell such as the one last night."

Something pulled at her mind, then, a whisper of premonition. It wasn't enough, but it was growing. Maybe it was about Prescott? Jen decided to work on it over the course of the day. She whispered to Johnson. "What's the betting he's in a big old warehouse in the usual district?" He chuckled quietly, then sat up again as the speaker addressed him.

"Now, Johnson. The target was trying to draw you out to his home ground before, so he's probably not ready to storm this place. Shame, really, because I'm sure the staff could use him to work off their tensions right now. I know I could. However, his aim does seem to be twofold – to kill you, and bring down the Organisation. We don't know if he'll try anything here, but we're moving you and Ms. Smith to The Manor."

Smith saw Johnson look impressed. If she remembered right, The Manor was that rarest of things: a safe-house that was actually safe. "Manor" in this case was the polite way of saying "Fortress".

-

It wasn't until that night, safe in the steel bunker with magicians and troops all around them, that the premonition which had been bothering her all day finally surfaced.

"Oh _shit_!"

-

Karen pulled the small wooden piece from the tower and added it to her pile. Opposite her in the dorm room, her friend Amy scowled.

"How do you do that? You're supposed to be blind."

"I am blind. I just pay attention to the weight moving."

"But there's a big bit on top that's ready to go and you shouldn't be able to see it."

Amy bit her lip and studied the fragile tower of blocks. The two children were seated on the floor in their pyjamas, hoping the clock would give them more time before the lights were turned off.

A block from the middle of the stack started to move outwards as Amy concentrated on it. She'd got a lot better at stopping the sideways wobble, but it was still difficult when all the other pieces were weighing down on the one she wanted.

The block snagged on the one below, and she pulled a bit harder.

Karen screamed as the bedroom door exploded inwards, sending splinters and dust over both of them. The wooden tower was blown all over the floor. Amy turned to look at the hole, gasping. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" Then she realised that she hadn't been responsible for it. A big man - enormous, wide as the doorway – trudged in, the debris crunching under his feet. Seeing Karen at the far end of the room, he pulled a throwing knife and sent it blurring through the air towards her.

Amy screamed and jumped backwards, pushing both of her hands at the flying knife – she saw it move in the air just enough to miss Karen's seated body by inches.

The assassin looked confused that his weapon hadn't found its target, and grunted. He immediately drew a heavy hunting knife and started to lumber calmly over to the two girls.

"RUN!" Amy grabbed her friend's hand and pulled her towards the balcony. The blind girl followed without asking questions. She was crying, but looked determined and was running without hesitation. Both of them sprinted for the end of the balcony, which joined with the next room.

-

Arnold Hughes had known that Karen was on the mission, and would therefore be staying in the more secure rooms above Operations that the all of the team (except Smith and Johnson) were quartered in for now. He hadn't expected to see her burst into his bedroom through the balcony doors and run screaming for the corridor.

"What the – hey, slow down. You're not meant to run in the-"

A larger figure appeared on the balcony. It took Hughes a second to remember the face from the picture that morning, but there was no mistaking his stance or the knives in his hands. Arnold started running as well.

He called out to Amy, already in the corridor, quickly caught up with her. "No! Not the main entrance! Go up – up!"

"But it's only offices up there! Everyone's downstairs!"

"Do it! Security can't help." He half-pushed her up the stairs and scooped up the blind girl to carry her. Behind them, the heavy footsteps continued unhurriedly towards the stairwell. "That's Taylor, the guy who went missing. If he's here, he mustn't be worried about security, or they're… anyway, he's afraid of the dark."  
"Uh- uh- how do you know that?"  
"It's in his psych report."

Karen, in his arms, grabbed onto Hughes tightly. "What, he's crazy?"  
"No, he's been hunting Vampires for the past five years. He's just very practical."

They reached a suite of offices, and Arnold started slapping all the light switches off. Soon they were in darkness, listening to the alarms wailing in the building below them.

Amy whispered. "What now?"

He didn't have an answer for her.

-

Taylor had paused when he reached the darkened area, and moved slowly towards the lightswitch. The girls had been fast, but were cornered now. He put the knives away and pulled a compact pistol – it was less of a challenge, but he hadn't expected to still be in the building by this point. Finishing the job was more important than testing himself.

Flicking the lights on, he checked the room. His gun searched out the places under the large desks, behind chairs.

Clear. Next room.

-

There was nowhere left. The previous office had a phone, but reception didn't pick up when Arnold dialled. No-one else on the building's emergency numbers did either. He didn't have anyone else's direct line and only tried random numbers for a few seconds before having to run again. Shit. Going upstairs had been a stupid move – there were two ways to the lifts or stairs, but their attacker could cover both.

Now they were in the more expensive boardrooms, and about to run out of building. It must have been about 9.30pm and the city lights flared neon in the darkness outside the extravagant full-length windows. The desk was made of heavy mahogany, but that just meant it was even less useful as a weapon – could he break off a table leg or something? Would it really make any difference against a trained killer who'd been regularly taking on vampires? No, probably not. No handy vases to break over his head in here, either. Some pens, like any of them could get close enough to use a hand-weapon of any kind. Anyway, this guy looked like he'd been bodybuilding since primary school – a straight fight would be Arnold vs _Arnie_, and over quickly.

He looked down at the two terrified children. Jesus, they were only seven or eight years old. This bastard would gut them.

Arnold pushed the girls into the last room and told them to barricade the door. Then he turned out the lights, and looked around for a plan.

-

Bulbs went on in the adjoining office, and Taylor was outlined in the doorway. Moving carefully, gun in hand, the assassin paced slowly up to the final offices. There was no sound from the next room, although he could hear the girls trying to stop their gasping for breath from giving them away on the other side of the double doors. Not long now.

Taylor entered the room and was hit by something from the right – ha, it was the man, the office worker. The idiot had charged in and was – what the hell was he d-

The two figures crashed through the giant glass window, and fell away into the night. Six floors up was quite far enough to guarantee it was fatal.

Arnold, dropping through the roaring air with his eyes wide and still not believing he'd actually done it, really, _really_ hoped he was scared enough.

-

They moved everyone on the team to the safe-house after that. It was generally accepted that Mike Taylor had left the Organisation of his own free will and gone to work for Prescott. No-one knew why. They argued over whether he could have been the only defector, or if there was still a mole.

Some clothes had stayed on this time, at least. Unfortunately it was the trousers and tie, but no underwear or shirt – still, he was obviously getting better. Now he just needed to sort out landing without hospitalising himself…

The new Doctor at the Organisation's medical facility had tried to explain about kinetic energy being difficult to translate into other stuff when you wanted to be stationary at the other end, but Arnold couldn't really understand above the drugs and the pain. Both his legs were in casts and the nurse had said something about "his spine" and "being lucky" that he didn't want to think too hard about.

Various people had turned up to thank him – Karen's family, who knew exactly what the Organisation was (and were fine with their girl staying there even after this, which confused Hughes a little). Johnson and his young lady, Ms Smith, who both seemed to think it was somehow their fault. His new boss, with talk of contracts and insurance.

He was promised a huge bonus and several months on crutches, and then they left him alone with the white walls, old magazines and unending baskets of fruit.

-

The sky was a blue silk curtain scattered with diamonds. Inside the castle bedroom, fur rugs and pillows surrounded a roaring fireplace. Johnson coughed politely and waited for the girl to respond.

"Oh. You're actually here. Am I dreaming this, then?" She was sat on a cushion by the fire. Her accent was slightly over the top – too much of Daddy's polo matches and weekends to Maui – but she'd sent out the call, so it must be serious. He hoped she wasn't doubting that this was a dream because there was _any_ possibility she could be in these surroundings in daily life.

"Yes, you're dreaming. It's the quickest way for me to get in touch with you, and means I don't put myself in physical danger with people I don't know." He smiled reassuringly. "So you have a problem?"

The young woman chewed her lip and hesitated. "There's a… boy, at school. He won't leave me alone. I… I'm afraid if he… I mean, I- "

Johnson interrupted, but kept his voice gentle. "Did he hit you?"

She stopped, surprised. "No, nothing like that. He just keeps hanging around. And he's… well, not the type you'd want to be seen with. I've told him to get lost, but he shows up at the worst possible times. People are starting to _notice_."

Johnson narrowed his eyes. "Wait a minute. You called me because an unsuitable guy is making you _look_ bad in front of your friends?"

"You've no idea, though! He's so gross -"

"How did you even find out about me? No-one I've worked for would have given you the details for something like this. You used Greg's call – did he tell you about me?"

She looked flustered now. "I said I needed help getting a man to leave me alone. And I do! Look, I'm desperate!"

Johnson rubbed his forehead, disgusted. A flash of anger made him take a step towards the woman.

"Do you have any idea what I could do to you, here? I could put you into a nightmare loop. You'd know you were dreaming, but be terrified every second for the rest of your life. And you'd know you could never wake up – not to move your arms, open your eyes, nothing. You'd have pain and horror for the endless infinite seconds of the rest of your life, and be completely helpless to even suicide your way out of it."

The girl gaped at him, her eyes wide.

"Now, I'm going to leave, and you're never going to call me again. When you wake up, you'll go to Greg and apologise. And if some guy is in love with you and mooning around, talk to him. Tell him it'll never happen, and that he's scaring you, or disgusts you, or whatever. But _don't_ hire guys like me."

He turned and left the room, shaking his head.

-

Hughes didn't like it. He'd been assigned a mentor for the duration of his hospital stay – the doctors still wouldn't say how long that would be, but both Arnold's legs were entirely covered in plaster and it wasn't coming off any time soon.

And now there was this girl to put up with: some Druid or Nature Priestess or something. She was giving him lessons on using his power, which she apparently had as well. He'd been working around magicians for a long time, but didn't know how he felt about actually being one.

"You're probably still feeling guilty about killing that man. Did you throw up yet?" She was short, with very long hair that was more bright yellow than blonde, and seemed always full of energy. It was a bit eerie. She was permanently cheerful, but then would come out with comments like this and the huge smile wouldn't flicker.

"No. Actually, I'm not sure I do feel guilty. It was a terrible shame that we couldn't talk it out, but he was going to kill all three of us. I… I just can't get past the fact that it was murder. That's wrong regardless of the situation, and now it's never going to go away." He'd been trying not to think about it, but as soon as the words were said aloud he was sure he meant them.

The girl frowned suddenly, which didn't make her look any less disturbing. "There are a few things you're going to have to get straight if you're working with your powers. The first is to stop referring to absolutes for what's always right or wrong, and start taking responsibility yourself. The reason it's easy to move between places is because we're connected to everything else: in distance, but also in duty. We bathe in a sea of energy. The bright flash of a hare's kick or a young girl's smile, the slow warm singing of sunshine on green leaves. You move through this and your spirit touches it all, and is touched back. When you act, all this is the same thing as you are. If you harm it, you harm yourself."

Arnold was bored. This was the third speech he'd had since lunch, and the watery broccoli hadn't been good enough to take his mind of it. "So if I punch someone, I should feel pain?"

"It happens to some, but it's not required."

"Are you saying I'm stuck here as a punishment for killing…" he couldn't say the name. "The man who attacked us?"

She snorted in frustration. "Don't be an idiot." The young woman stood suddenly, and approached the bed. Arnold tried to back away until he remembered that he couldn't move his legs at all. "Killing isn't always wrong, if you've tried everything else. It's something you _have_ to do in your lifetime – to eat, to keep flocks and crops healthy... it's tightly bound to the successful continuance of life. But when you feel the connections, you'll have respect for all life. And you'll see what needs doing, and do it, but sometimes with regret."

Hughes thought about this for a few seconds. "No, I don't like it. I'll stay as I am, thanks."

She laughed. "When you jumped, you reached out and felt the warmth of the other place's spirit. The nearness was like a dull pain in your stomach, you take a stepped towards it. Am I right?"

"I don't know what I felt. There was quite a bit of pain both times, actually… so what you're saying is, I have to be crazy? Like, as crazy as you?"

"Oh yes. By society's standards anyway, very much so."

They didn't find any more common ground after that. Progress on the first day was slow.

-

Nearly two weeks later, the Organisation was getting ready to take the fight to Prescott. The 9am briefing was in the Manor this time.

"We have a location for our man. Thankfully his attempt to neutralise our asset failed…" he flicked a glance at Karen, and swallowed "…and we were able to continue monitoring him. He's in a W-"

"A warehouse!" Smith and Johnson interrupted in unison.

Rogers blinked at them. "How did you know that?"

Jen sighed. "They're always in a Warehouse, sir. That why the mob rents out these sprawling tracts of concrete in the middle of nowhere. It's back-to-back criminals pretending their grimy building is some kind of palace, with the throne and servants and their bloody magic circles and army of hired goons…" she broke off. "Okay, that was just the once. But the second guy was just as bad."

Everyone was looking at her now. Johnson cleared his throat. "It's not a huge surprise that he's in the Warehouse district, sir."

"Yes, well. We were ready to just level the building but it looks like he may have hostages. Also, he's clearly got someone helping him, because the place is warded and we can't get a reliable layout. So we have to send a team in on foot."

This got a mixed reaction from the assembled group. "Any of us, sir?"

"No. Everyone who's part of the investigation team is under maximum security until this is finished. There are some men from B-division who have the suitable mix of skills. We'll watch from here."

Falconer, the accountant, choked loudly when B-division showed up on the remote cameras.

"Are those _ninjas_?"

Rogers didn't blink. "Yes."

No-one else responded for a few seconds, until the finance man spoke up again. "But… they're _ninjas_. Why are they working for us?"

The section leader looked surprised. "Because they're very good at breaking into secure places and quickly dealing with the people inside. Honestly, everyone is using them these days." He began to lecture the room. "These are actually our own boys, trained to deal with the physical and magical sides of things. They've been tremendously successful in the past..." Rogers realised he was trying to justify the action to a self-important bean-counter that he'd never wanted in the room anyway, and stopped.

Falconer continued whining. "I've never seen them on the payrolls!"

"No. Quite a lot of our black ops don't go through normal finance. Now shut up, we need to be available in case things get complicated."

Things did indeed get complicated at that point, as the entire team of Ninjas entered the warehouse just in time for it to explode. Three camera links went down in quick succession, and the final one at long range showed the building (and those on either side of it) reduced to rubble. Nothing moved on the feed.

Jennifer had her hand to her mouth in horror, but Johnson's voice was calm. "We still have leaks, then?" He pulled a large pistol from his jacket and loaded it.

Across the table, Karen sat up straight when she heard him chamber the round. "What? Why are you doing that?"

Johnson shook his head and muttered something under his breath. "Most times this happens, the next explosion you hear comes from your front gate. They're probably here already."

Now everyone was looking at each other in panic. "Here? This isn't a set of offices you can almost walk into off the street, it's the _Manor_ for goodness sake!"

Johnson was calm, but implacable. "Prescott will do it anyway. He doesn't have the magical muscles to curse us all individually, he's an arms dealer. He'll send goons with guns. Everybody get some Kevlar on."

Jennifer leaned close and whispered to him. "Am I going to have to shoot people?"

He didn't move, but looked steadily into her eyes. "Probably. Can you do that?"

She took a breath. Slowly, she spoke as though working it out for herself. "This Prescott – he's trying to kill me, my friends and the man I love. What do you think?"

They were both silent for a few seconds, staring into each other's eyes. Eventually, he nodded.

"Good girl."

-

Jennifer had only left the room for a second to fetch shotguns from the racks nearby, but when she came back half the personnel were no longer there.

"Johnson? Johnson! Rogers – where did he go?"

The section head was changing clips on an MP5. "He said he had a lead on Prescott, and went to sector D. The other man went after him."

"What other man?"

Rogers shrugged. "Works here. Said he was a friend from years ago, and wanted to help. It's okay, he was telling the truth - I got Chrissie to check him."

This wasn't good. "Johnson doesn't _have_ any old friends. What did the man look like?"

"Just some Chinese guy. Honestly, if Chrissie says he's alright, he's got to – Smith?"

Jennifer ran from the room.

-

His pistol stayed levelled at the Asian man's chest. "I owe you several bullets and a betrayal, you double-crossing bastard."

There was a pause. The Chinese man looked very old but still stood confidently upright, his hands clasped behind his head. Johnson's voice echoed in the cramped utility room.

"…However, today I think I hate our attacker more. Here, swear on this." With his other hand, he held out a small wooden figurine of a woman surrounded by animals.

The Chinese guy moved his arms slowly and took it. "I swear not to harm you, David. I'm here to help."

The gun didn't move. "And you understand what will happen to you, immediately and violently, if you break that promise?" A nodded 'yes' from the older man.

"Okay." Johnson put the weapon away and became instantly relaxed. He acted as though the newcomer was suddenly absolutely no threat to him at all. "I need backup right now, but when this is over you and I are going to talk."

-

Jennifer had not participated in a gunfight since the various life-threatening shootouts in the first few months after she met Johnson. Her precognition had become much more powerful since then, and as the hired guns started firing on the sorcerers' security forces, she found an unexpected side-effect: she could tell where the enemy was going to be. While Johnson was battle-hardened but severely out of shape, she was inexperienced but was able to get behind cover thanks to the warnings.

She grabbed the nearest person. "Reeves! Which way did Johnson go?"

Jennifer had to shout over the gunshots that were already approaching the meeting room. The young soldier she'd accosted was kneeling behind a reinforced desk, next to another man in body armour - he fired through the doorway, then gestured to the smaller door behind them. "Cells. He thinks they're breaking in from underneath."

She took another breath and kept running.

-

Johnson rolled out of the elevator and came up with the Desert Eagle covering the only door to the room. Nothing moved. Behind him, the other man coughed.

"David, it seems I was wrong. You are not in danger, but she might be. I will leave to find her."

He didn't stop covering the door. "What did you see? Is she okay?"

"For now, but I should be there. Is that alright?"

Johnson considered. It could be a trick… no-one had sworn not to harm Jen. On the other hand, the man had always been honest – even when expressing regret that he'd had to change sides during their last encounter. If she was in danger, he'd be able to help.

"Yes. Go."

The lift doors closed again, and Johnson was left alone.

-

There wasn't meant to be anyone down here. Prescott's men were storming the front gate – it was the only place you could remotely conceive of approaching from, the facility was just too solid everywhere else. So why was she seeing dead bodies down here, and hearing gunfire?

A man was behind the next wall… Smith moved until she was well hidden. There was no-one else here to engage him for her, she'd have to do it herself. Taking a breath, she stepped out and fired-

Uh.

That hadn't worked so well. Something big had hit her in the chest, and now she was having trouble breathing. Must have been shot, although she hoped the Kevlar had taken most of it. Lungs were kinda numb, and her head felt funny. Wait – the gunman was still up. He had walked over to where she was lying, and appeared in the lower half of her vision.

"Those vests you've all got are annoying. Shame they don't protect your faces."

He started to raise his machine pistol, but there was a whoosh of sound. It was like someone let off a cylinder of compressed air… and then a thud. Her attacker toppled, and behind him stood – wait, was that Hughes? The HR guy?

Arnold lowered the baseball bat and steadied himself. The zimmer frame had given him a solid enough base to tie his plastered legs to, but it all got precarious if he threw his weight around too much. He'd had nothing to do but sit in bed all day trying to make his power work, and with Andrea's help he'd actually become pretty good at it. He'd even managed to keep the clothes on this time, although he'd have liked to swap the thin blue hospital robe for some of the Kevlar he was seeing around here…

Hughes looked up and squeaked, disappearing again. A second later, the far wall was peppered with bullets.

Jennifer was still on her back. Her ribs hurt, too much. There were sounds of a fight behind her head, the baseball bat at work again, but she couldn't turn around. She had to get back on her feet. She had to get to Johnson, tell him that Chinese Guy was around, that he needed to watch out…

Another of Prescott's men appeared in the doorway, then fell to the floor with a scream. Chinese Guy stepped slowly over the prone body and into the room.

"Hello Jennifer."

-

"Hello Dean." The hot weight of the gun barrel against his head was the first hint Prescott had that anyone else was even in the room. Johnson continued in a tight voice. "You forgot the first rule of taking on my people, asshole. We don't need to be super-fast or super-strong. We just need you to think that we're invisible for a few seconds."

Neither man moved. They were at the entrance to the cell block, next to a hole blown in from the sewers. Muted sounds of gunfire continued in the distance.

Prescott snarled. "You'd be Johnson, then. I've been trying to meet you for a while, you know." He was seethingly angry, and didn't seem at all scared by the gun. "Do you realise how much you've cost me, you piece of shit? I would have been untouchable! I was a _made man_ if the fucking deal had just gone through!"

The sorcerer didn't flinch. "I don't care about that. I've carried out a lot of violence in my life, Dean, and I hadn't planned on needing to do more - but you killed Henry. I'm sorry, but I've got to take you out."

Prescott sneered. "Shoot me then."

"Oh, that's not the only option." Johnson moved the gun down to the back of his enemy's neck, and pressed harder. "There's this thing called a Nightmare Loop. You've pissed me off enough to deserve it: an eternity of fear, much worse than a quick death."

Prescott was sweating, and this threat seemed to get through to him where the sound of the cocked gun hadn't. Psych had thought he'd have a general fear of magic-users fuelling his crusade.

"…But it would mean having the taint of you in my head for whole seconds longer than necessary, and I don't like you nearly enough for that."

Johnson pulled the trigger.

-

Jennifer was in a white room with her chest bound tight with bandages. She was in a bed. The sheets were too rough.

"Damn, I got shot, didn't I?"

Johnson sat up and leaned in next to her. "Yep. Cracked some ribs, hit your head."

She sighed. "I needed to find you. Chinese Guy was back. Did you get him?"

Her man shook his head, but smiled. "He saved you and then wisely ran from me. He's good at disappearing. I don't think he wants to take me up on my offer of a friendly chat anytime soon."

Smith relaxed and winced as her body moved in the bed. "How long am I gonna be here?"

"Not long. The ribs need to stay bound, but you'll be okay in time for next week."

"What?" She must still be groggy, and her mouth tasted terrible. "What's next week?"

"Our wedding. I figured we'd waited long enough, so I went ahead and arranged it. The Doc says you'll be okay to stand up straight by then, provided you keep the bandages on for a while."

Jennifer yawned and licked the side of her mouth. Her chest hurt when she breathed in. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Us. We're getting married, if you say yes. I thought about it a while back, but it must have been the lack of impending death that distracted me. Figure it's a good idea to get it in soon before something else happens."

"Wait a minute. Wait one fucking minute – is that meant to be a _proposal_? Did you just propose to me in the lamest way I've ever seen? Get down on one knee right this goddamn minute and do that properly!"

"Will you say yes if I do?"

"…Yes."

-

Hughes was also back in hospital. Andrea was still shouting at him. He decided that she was a very opinionated person. She'd already lamented at length about his stupidity, rashness, and the unhealthy drawbacks of not having enough sex because both your legs are in plaster. She also seemed to think clothes were an imposition that she only bothered with for other people's comfort, and some hippy nonsense about plants. He didn't mind. Arnold had got some good hits in at the Manor with the baseball bat that the kid in ward 3 had leant him, and only decided to come back here when the bullets started flying and he realised he didn't have a clue what he was doing. Andrea, as a fully qualified sorcerer, had got the call when the attacked started, and he'd followed her teleport a few minutes later.

The would-be hero's only injury from the trip had been from bashing himself in the elbow with the rebounding bat, before he'd realised that his opponent's knees weren't as armoured as the other parts of them.

Now he had more endless hospital days ahead of him, and meanwhile the inter-office tensions he'd been hired to calm were still bubbling away nicely. Oh well – there was little chance it'd be as dangerous as the all-out assault they'd just faced. Probably. He'd need to tell whoever was covering for him to give some concessions to the Hermetics, which should buy enough time to talk the Telepaths round.

Hughes lay back and listened to the crazy Druid lady shout some more. He thought she had a nice voice, when you got used to the volume. He offered her some grapes.

-

Two men sat alone in the darkened bar. Beside Peter, the dishevelled and bitter figure of Malcolm Falconer was pouring himself another whisky.

"Damn it all. I told him about Johnson, so many times…" He took another drink.

The large blond man didn't look up from peeling the label off his beer bottle. "You were the mole."

"Yeah. Oh yeah, it was the accountant all along. I'll have to go on the run now, I guess. All that money, should have been mine…" he looked up at the monk. "It's okay though, I'll pay my debts before I go. The same type of death-curse that got Streatham: it's got one more victim to claim. I'm confident it can't be broken."

He was grinning smugly now. "The only guy who could do that was the top man himself, and he failed. This one doesn't stand a chance – certain, painful death!" He drained the tumbler. "The curse costs a lot to set up, but this is personal. Like Streatham, damn him. It'll be worth it."

Peter was silent for a moment on the neighbouring stool, staring into space. "Johnson?"

"No, the girl. Smith. I figure that'll hurt Johnson more than a quick way out. The two of them are in the medical facility across town until the wedding tomorrow, and she's got-" he checked his watch. "Two minutes before the effects start."

The other man nodded slowly, sounding tired. "She's got precognition, though, hasn't she?"

"Sure, but so did Henry. The curse is shielded from that, it's meant for Sorcerers." Malcolm drained his tumbler and grinned smugly. "Nothing can stop it now. You could have done, of course, if you weren't neutered, but it's safe for me to tell you. Just the two of us here, and another neutral dispute. The Organisation will carry on as usual tomorrow. Heh. Ninety seconds."

Peter looked sad at the woman's impending fate, and Malcolm caught the emotion in the big man's face. "Hey, you could try to call someone. There should be one or two of the Witches around at this hour, they might be in the dorms… they could make it if they run, although I'm afraid I don't plan to be here by the time they arrive. And it was me you'd have to have killed to stop it."

Peter nodded glumly. "I know." He broke the beer bottle on the bar and thrust the shattered end into the other man's stomach. Falconer began to scream, but the monk reached his huge arm across and smashed him in the face, hard. The bloodied head whipped back, bones in the neck cracking loudly. The left hand found the back of Malcolm's head and slammed him face-down into the bar. Powerful fingers tangled in the matted hair and pounded the head downwards again, and again, until the wooden bar cracked from the force of it and the skull on the limp body was the wrong shape.

Something left Peter then, some of the poise and grace and peace, exchanged for the blood that had gushed over the front of his white tabard. He dropped the body, which slid to the floor, and then hesitated for a moment, glancing up at the ceiling.

"Sorry, Ma."

Walking slowly from the room, Peter went to wake up some cleaners.


End file.
